(page 333 of 459)
"Along the farther wall she could see leaning an entire array of skills, talents and eccentricities. Several cultivated habits paraded by at a distance, and mannerisms languished here and there. One man close by the door walked off and turned into a political ambition before her eyes, and a knack for versification became a pale boy with a halo of hair as it approached."
—Nov 18, 2018 05:06AM

(page 59 of 229)
"There was a stone once that I knew of whom certain persons had asked to join a certain violence. The stone refused to give itself or to refuse itself, not that it ever came to the point of actual refusal, the stone merely shut its eyes and remained silent, and for all I may ever know the stone is still living with some grass, or is it a shadow that said hello."
—Nov 12, 2018 05:21AM

Sean’s Recent Updates

Sean
is on page 333 of 459 of The Secret Service: Along the farther wall she could see leaning an entire array of skills, talents and eccentricities. Several cultivated habits paraded by at a distance, and mannerisms languished here and there. One man close by the door walked off and turned into a political ambition before her eyes, and a knack for versification became a pale boy with a halo of hair as it approached.

Sean
is on page 302 of 459 of The Secret Service: Another thief Polly met, an elderly man, stole time, with the logical intention of prolonging his days. When he was in the mood to dwell on his memories he stole past time, when he felt constricted by immediate limitations, he stole present time. When he was particularly hard hit by the panic of impending dissolution he stole future time out of the very lives of children, and this ravishing of his victims was fatal.

"Returning to London after holidaying abroad always occasions a sense of gloom. The streets seem mean, shabby, dirty. The light is cold and grey and the buses are crowded and noisy and the people are mean. At times I’m aware of that feeling of bein..."
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Preview — Turtle Diary
by Russell Hoban

Griffin Alexander
is on page 212 of 314 of The Melancholy of Resistance: the mind(he meditated the complex lines of the grain in one of the boards)was not so much a painful lacuna in the world-order as an integral part of it, the world's shadow...To be more accurate, Eszter continued, it was only a shadow in the mirror, a mirror where the image and the mirror wholly coincided though the shadow nevertheless tried to separate them, to separate two things that had from eternity been the same

Preview — The Melancholy of Resistance
by László Krasznahorkai

""The Smiths" are so depressing that whenever I finishing listening to them my heart is filled with joy again. Thomas Bernhard is so nihilistic that whenever I finish reading him my life is filled with meaning again.

“Sleep occupies a third of our life. It is the consolation to the woes of our days or the woe of their pleasures; but I have never found that sleep was a rest. After a swoon of a few minutes a new life begins, freed from conditions of time and space, and doubtless like the life which awaits us after death. Who knows whether there does not exist a link between these two existences, and whether it is not possible for the soul now to bind them together?”
―
Gerard de Nerval,
Aurélia

“Normally I didn’t see a great deal. I didn’t hear a great deal either. I didn’t pay attention. Strictly speaking I wasn’t there. Strictly speaking I believe I’ve never been anywhere.”
―
Samuel Beckett

“For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!”
―
Fyodor Dostoevsky,
White Nights and Other Stories